


Exhale

by h-uxed (disappearingcheshire)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, F/F, F/M, Multi, Pegging, Phux - Freeform, Threesome - F/F/M, Tribadism, female tops, gasper!Hux, phazine, use of a garrote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8831686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disappearingcheshire/pseuds/h-uxed
Summary: Tomorrow, Hux will have a collar of broken vessels to contend with. Red-purple, blue-black. His throat will be haloed in ligature marks, in a noose of sore, bruised skin that shifts when he swallows, echoing the ache in his trachea.
Or: the one where Phasma and her girlfriend tag team the General.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Have I mentioned how much I love pegging? Because I do. Especially with Phux. Unf! Also Phazine (the Phasma ship of my heart).  
> For anyone unfamiliar with a garrote: [1](http://www.donrearic.com/images/garrottefm211501971.jpg) / [2](http://www.donrearic.com/images/garrottev5.jpg)

The General’s throat is bared and flushed, his head wrenched back as he gasps. Bit by bit, the cord around his neck tightens, digging into his windpipe. It coils like a snake, black and smooth, strong and unforgiving. His chest hitches, his lungs striving for air. Phasma reaches forward, rubbing over tender nipples just to watch him shudder.

At his back, Bazine pulls harder on the garrote, her eyes dark with pleasure. They’re both on their knees, Bazine’s hips flexing as she takes Hux from behind. She’s buried deep, grinding into him, and steals his breath with practiced ease. His whole body is taut, arched beautifully, his cock stiff and wet.

Admiring from her spot beside them, Phasma brings her fingers down his trembling stomach. The tendons of his neck are lifted, gleaming with sweat, and already he’s beginning to welt. Tomorrow, Hux will have a collar of broken vessels to contend with. Red-purple, black-blue. His throat will be haloed in ligature marks, in a noose of sore, bruised skin that shifts when he swallows, echoing the ache in his trachea. 

It’s a pretty thought, made even prettier by the harsh, desperate breath he sucks in when Bazine gives him slack. She cuts him off again just as quickly, creating a pattern that strangles him by increments. Soon, his vision will begin to spot, his head swimming as each stolen sip allows him less and less. He’s snared, the air he needs kept just out of reach, unable to be caught by his burning lungs. 

The General’s face grows mottled, his lashes crested. Phasma finds her attention drawn back to the other woman. Her gaze lingers on the way Bazine’s thighs flex, and the smooth, supple glide of her hips. The spy has always been skilled with a garrote, and she handles it now with clever fingers, wrapping both ends around her knuckles. Applying pressure on the bind, she guides Hux back, still driving into him. The angle is tight, making his cock jerk and his mouth fall open on a silent groan.

Smirking, Bazine bites down on a rosy shoulder, hard enough to damage, before turning to drag her tongue up his throat. She lets their momentum push him harder into the garrote, his muscles straining at the feel. It’s only her aptitude that keeps Hux from a broken neck, the compression just intense enough to balance him on the edge. His adam’s apple works, his expression buckled with pleasure-pain. When Bazine’s thrusts take on a new rhythm, Phasma finally relents from her position of onlooker.

She moves until she can feel the heat of their bodies, and tucks her hand around the General’s cock. Stroking him, Phasma knows he’s not going to last. He throbs in her palm, looking overstimulated and agonized, struggling for breath. Behind him, Bazine murmurs something the Captain doesn’t catch, her grin feral. Hux’s whole body responds, his flush darkening and hips tilting. Chuckling, Phasma tightens her fist, even as arousal shocks through her. She’s been in his position enough times to be able to guess what sort of comments the other is making - knows for herself how easy it is to got lost in the throaty words and dark promises. 

The spy shifts, taking on a grind that has nothing to do with fucking Hux and everything to do with pleasuring herself. Pelvis rocking, she works against the base of the strap-on. Phasma groans at the unabashed self-service, burying her fist in a shaggy mohawk to yank Bazine into a kiss. They’re rough, teeth on lips, their tongues sliding. Sweeping her palm down the other woman’s back, Phasma grips her ass, slipping her fingers beneath the edge of the harness. 

When they break apart, she lets go of the General to settle behind Bazine, all three of them knelt together. She fits herself to the shorter woman’s back, locking her in the middle, and flattens her palms over her waist. Running them down her thighs and back up, Phasma bites at the nape of her neck, her smirk curling against skin. Despite her slender appearance when clothed, Bazine is made of strong muscle, her body honed for combat. The Captain watches the flex of her arms, the shift of her shoulders as she chokes Hux. 

Deftly, they begin anew, Phasma rolling her hips in compliment to the figure before her. With as close as they’re pressed, her chin tucked over Bazine’s shoulder, it’s easy to reach around her, long fingers once more grasping the General. Her other hand slides up a scarred ribcage, cupping the pert shape of Bazine’s breast. For a number of moments, they merely exist, three bodies fit into one, the smell of sex and sweat heavy in the air. Then Bazine yanks the garrote, stopping the redhead’s access to oxygen entirely. She moves the tails of the cord into a single fist, and with her other reaches back to tangle in blond hair.

Again, they kiss, the spy turned toward her, their mouths fit together. It’s lush and heated, the hand in her hair pulling sharply. Letting go, Phasma brings both of her palms to Hux’s hips, crushing Bazine between them, and jerks him back onto the strap-on. With a hold tight enough to bruise, she begins to move him back and forth, fucking Hux onto the prosthetic. Their bodies lean forward, curved together, as the redhead suffocates, braced onto his palms. Each hard pump makes Bazine hiss, Phasma riding the toy against her, then into Hux. It must feel like dying, like fire in his lungs and horrible tension. One of his hands scratches weakly at the garrote, biting deeply into his throat, the pressure from his position nearly crushing his windpipe. He doesn’t struggle for long, forced to stop clawing before he loses his balance and strangles himself.

Bazine arches, pushing into Phasma, and bites at her jaw. Her smirk is wicked as she takes her time, denying the redhead any reprieve. Just when it seems to be too much, when enough time has passed that Hux grows weak, Bazine pulls away. Swiftly, she releases the cords, giving them slack, and uncoils the first layer in a single motion. Immediately, the General draws a raw, frantic breath, his orgasm ripping through him. He cums and cums, his torso wracked with harsh, grating coughs. Gasping and choking, he sounds destroyed, his breathing hoarse and limbs trembling. Around his throat, the garrote hangs limp and serpentine.

Without waiting, Phasma shoves the harness off Bazine’s hips, allowing her to slip a hand down between her thighs. The spy groans, pushing into the touch, her range stifled by the straps around her legs. Rasping an impatient sound, she slants away to remedy the problem. In no time, the bounty hunter rids herself of the harness, and uses the freedom to get Phasma on her back. Pulling her knees up, she welcomes the other’s weight, their bodies pressed together, and groans as Bazine begins to rut, creating slick friction. It doesn’t take long, their hips rocking and skin sliding, before they hurtle towards release. 

Afterwards, when all three of them are sated, they spread across the newly changed sheets. Watching Hux drift to sleep, stretched on his stomach, Phasma ghosts a fingertip over the marks on his throat. He twitches, his face tucked into his arm, but doesn’t stir. His posture is relaxed, drained of its normal tension, and his expression is almost peaceful. Chuckling, Phasma brushes his bangs back, her thumb sweeping over one of his brows. At her opposite side, Bazine lounges warmly, draping an arm across her stomach, and Phasma settles down to drag her close. Humming, the bounty hunter complies, hooking their legs and nipping her shoulder. Together, they drowse, the sheets tangled at their waists - three figures in a single bed.


End file.
